


somewhere between indifference and pure distaste

by labellelunaclaire



Series: AUgust 2020 [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU-gust 2020, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labellelunaclaire/pseuds/labellelunaclaire
Summary: Day 8 — Superheroes/Superpowers"You have no idea what my power actually is, do you?" Grantaire laughed, leaning close, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Of course you don't. Why would you? You never bothered to ask. About my powers or anything else about me.”
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: AUgust 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860763
Comments: 2
Kudos: 74
Collections: AUgust 2020





	somewhere between indifference and pure distaste

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be up on _Saturday_ , and clearly it _wasn’t._ It was just a bit more of a beast than I expected it to be, plus I was working, and I got a migraine. So now I’m working double time on my day off to play catch up. Hopefully I’ll finish at least a couple more fics today and get them posted.

Grantaire drank too much. He knew that. He also knew that the world was too fucked up to _not_ drink. Especially because there wasn’t a single bit of its fucked-up-ness that he could forget.

He didn’t know why he continued to go to the Amis meetings. The people were great, but the _politics._ Dear Lord Above, the _politics._

He got quite enough of that from the rest of the world, thanks.

He understood it, of course. When your entire existence is politicized, it can be hard to _not_ to talk politics 24/7. But sometimes he just didn’t want to think about it, you know?

Today was a big deal, though. And maybe he should have stayed home as soon as he’d seen the news.

“How are you doing, R?” Joly asked as he, Bossuet, and Musichetta sat down at Grantaire’s table with him.

Grantaire shrugged and gestured to his half empty glass.

“He’s going to be impossible today, isn’t he?” he asked, and he knew his answer from the looks on their faces.

“It’s going to be alright, R,” Chetta said, laying a soothing hand on his arm. And he did immediately feel better, a comfortable warmth spreading through his body, relaxing him slightly. Either he looked more like shit than he even thought, or Musichetta was more distracted that she was letting on by using her powers subconsciously.

Bossuet sat down a little ways away from Grantaire. So maybe it was a little of column A and a little of column B, if his emotional energy was so off putting that Bossuet needed to distance himself from Grantaire. Chetta sat down next to him, her arm pressed full against his and he, too, relaxed at the contact.

How incredible it must be, to have a partner with complimentary powers to your’s, who can take away the pain.

Better than whatever the hell he was doing, that’s for fucking sure.

He finished off his glass in one swig, and motioned for Éponine at the bar to get him another.

The Musain was starting to fill up as all of the Amis got out of classes or out of work. Normally, the time before their meetings had a certain friendly and easy atmosphere, with everyone catching up and making plans and complaining about whatever mundane life shit was going on. Not today, though. There was a somber feeling that spread throughout the entire room, a strange quietness that seemed entirely unnatural for a bar three blocks from campus.

Jehan walked in, dressed in their usual oversized sweater and colorful skinny jeans, carrying a stack of books that didn’t fit inside their backpack. Their light brown hair was loosely braided down their back and they wore no makeup — a look they usually reserved for finals week and bad mental health days.

Without a word to anyone, they came and sat in the chair next to Grantaire and rested their head on his shoulder.

“Same,” Grantaire said lamely, running his hand over Jehan’s head. Jehan nestled further into Grantaire’s neck with a quiet, distressed little noise, hiding their face from view. Grantaire felt wetness where their lashes tickled his skin.

“Do you need a little pick me up, honey?” Musichetta asked quietly. Jehan just nodded into Grantaire’s neck and set their hand on the table.

“Here you go, baby,” Chetta said, reaching across the table to take Jehan’s hand.

Jehan took a shuddering breath and gave a deep exhale. They relaxed a little on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Better?” she asked in her soft, comforting voice.

“Yeah,” Jehan murmured. “’S just been a shitty day.”

“I know, lovie,” she cooed.

“Just one in a long line to come,” Grantaire mumbled darkly as Éponine set a glass in front of him.

Then she smacked him with the back of her hand. “Don’t say shit like that right now, R,” she said seriously. “We don’t need it.”

He rolled his eyes. It was the fucking truth, wasn’t it?

Life was just a fucked up parade of shitty days he wished he could forget.

He downed his drink.

“Keep drinking like that and I’m cutting you off right now, Grantaire,” she warned. “Don’t think for a second that I won’t.”

He knew she was serious. She’d done it before. A few times.

And then the door to the Musain opened, and in walked Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac.

They were in deep, quiet conference, heads close together as they spoke, faces somber. Even Courfeyrac, who almost always had an easy smile for everyone, looked utterly serious. They made their way to their usual table, and it felt like the entire room stopped breathing while they all waited for what the triumvirate had to say.

Combeferre was the first to stand and address the group.

“So, I’m sure you’ve all heard what’s happened,” he began, even more subdued than normal. “Proposition 3 just passed in our state, with similar propositions passing in nine other states.”

Courfeyrac stood up next to Combeferre. “It’s really important to understand what this does and doesn’t mean,” he added. “Prop 3 is about the registration of superpowered individuals who have been convicted of a crime. It’s _not_ retroactive, so anyone with previous convictions will _not_ be affected, and it won’t be required for minors unless they’re being tried as an adult. Registration as a term of conviction is also at the discretion of the individual judges.”

“Unfortunately, this is still a bad precedent to have on the books,” Combeferre continued. “It’s the first legal step to more widespread registration, or worse.”

“What do you mean by ‘or worse’?” Éponine asked from the bar.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac hesitated, looking at each other for how to answer her question.

Enjolras stood, the fearless general addressing his troops. He met everyone’s eyes before speaking.

“There have been rumors circulating that at least one major pharmaceutical company is preparing to enter Phase I of clinical trials for a genetic therapy to eradicate superpowers entirely.”

The room erupted into terrified discussion. Jehan grabbed onto Grantaire tighter and began crying freely again.

_Just one in a long line to come…_

He hated being right.

“Everyone, please,” Courfeyrac begged. “We need to remain calm.”

“The timing of these rumors are obviously a concern,” Enjolras interjected. “Phase I means the beginning of human trials. There’s a possibility that corrupt companies could team up with even more corrupt prosecutors to try to tie favorable plea deals with participation in the trials.”

“Yes, but right now, it’s nothing but rumors,” Combeferre said. “We won’t know anything until an official announcement is made.”

“But they’re working on a cure?” Grantaire called out over the murmuring crowd. “They’re actively working on one?”

“We believe so, yes,” Combeferre responded. “We’d be fools to think that there weren’t at least a dozen so-called ‘cures’ being investigated at the moment.”

“And in your medical opinion,” Grantaire continued, “what are your thoughts? Is it possible?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s possible,” Enjolras cut in, burning bright with anger and looking devastatingly beautiful while he did it. “Our abilities aren’t a disease to be wiped out. We’re not a problem to be fixed. There’s nothing wrong with us!”

“Says the guy whose power is phasing through solid objects,” Grantaire countered. “Here’s a little newsflash for you up in your ivory tower, Apollo: not all of our powers are as easy to deal with as yours.”

“All the more reason to put money behind accessible social services for people with abilities and not some bullshit cure,” he argued back passionately. “We need to combat the stigma against us, not take a step towards eugenics.”

“Okay, first of all, we can’t even get adequate, accessible _healthcare_ in this country,” he pointed out. “How are we supposed to convince people to back social services for a group that has a similar public approval rating as gays in the height of the AIDS crisis? And second, stigma isn’t the only thing that causes someone’s powers to be detrimental to their health. If someone wants a cure, shouldn’t it be their right to decide that for themselves?”

“And what’s to stop someone from being coerced into getting the cure? The same way some people are still forced or guilted into conversion therapy? There’s no difference.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it!” Grantaire yelled, furious that Enjolras just wasn’t _getting it._ “And if you _don’t_ know it, you’re even more removed from reality than I thought you were! Some of our powers cause us real pain, Enjolras! Myself included!”

"And what's so bad about your ability, Grantaire?” he questioned angrily. “Being a super genius? What about that is just so _painful_ that you would wish it away?"

Several people gasped. Jehan lifted their head from Grantaire’s shoulder and stared at Enjolras in horror. Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged concerned looks. Grantaire just laughed at the absurdity.

He knew that he didn't talk about his powers often, but for Enjolras to be so completely _oblivious_... it was hilarious, in the least funny way imaginable.

"You have no idea what my power actually is, do you?" Grantaire laughed, leaning close, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Of course you don't. Why would you? You never bothered to ask. About my powers or anything else about me.

Enjolras was frozen with a look of confusion.

"My ability isn't that I'm a super genius, you ass,” Grantaire spat out. “It’s that I can remember _everything_ , which _includes_ the useless information that passes as intelligence in this world.”

Enjolras just stared at him, and Grantaire knew that he had the upper hand now.

“You know what that means, to be able to remember everything that's ever happened in my life?” he continued, well aware that everyone in the Musain was staring at him in horror. “It means I can remember in perfect clarity being three years old and hearing my father say he should have never married my mother. I remember being five when he actually left and told me he'd never wanted to be a father anyways. I remember when I was eleven and tried to kill myself for the first time. And then the second time when I was twelve. I tried twice when I was fifteen. And then three more times after that.”

Enjolras looked absolutely sick. But Grantaire _needed_ to make him understand. To see.

“I remember every terrible thing anyone has ever said to me, yourself included!” Grantaire accused. “You don't even think about the things you shout in your anger! _'You don't contribute anything to this group!' 'Are you incapable of believing in anything?' 'I'm sure you'll just be sitting in the back like always, drinking your life away and making snide comments about how everything we're working for is worthless!'_ Do you think that having all of that shit going through my head doesn’t fucking affect me?"

Grantaire could see the horrified look on Enjolras's face as he threw the words back at him, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Every word was true, not a syllable falsified.

And Enjolras knew it.

"Grantaire, I—" Enjolras started shakily.

"Save your breath," Grantaire snapped, and Enjolras paled even more. "You meant every word. You want to know why I drink? Because some part of me — some stupid, ridiculous part of me — hopes that one day I'll drink enough that I can finally forget _something_ ." He stood up, anger pulsing through his veins like fire. "You know what? _Fuck you_. I'm tired of loving someone who treats me like shit. I might not deserve much, but I know I deserve better than that."

He threw his bag over his shoulder and stormed out of the Musain, not bothering to spare the confused blond another look.

* * *

A couple hours later, Grantaire was considerably less drunk than he wished he was.

In fact, he was barely drunk at all. It seemed that Jehan had the forethought to lock up all their alcohol before heading to class. And all of the sharp objects. Though whether that was for Grantaire’s benefit or for their own was anyone’s guess.

So, instead of getting drunk, Grantaire laid on his unmade bed and doodled in his sketchpad while watching _Great British Bake Off_ on his laptop. He felt bad about leaving Jehan when they were so upset. Hopefully Musichetta was able to help calm them down after he had stormed out.

He regretted a lot of what he said. Not all of it, mind. Just… maybe he didn’t strictly _need_ to tell Enjolras about his daddy issues. Or that he’d tried to kill himself seven times.

Or that he was in love with him. Maybe he should have kept that one to himself.

He was halfway through the technical bake of the second episode when he heard the front door open and shut. At least Jehan had gotten home safely.

Grantaire considered getting up to apologize, offer to make a pot of herbal tea or maybe break out some of the frozen cookie dough, but he was just… exhausted, so he stayed laying on his bed with his sketchbook and _GBBO._

There was a soft knock on his bedroom door. Figured. Jehan probably wanted to make sure that he hadn’t rushed home and hanged himself or something.

“Hey, Jehan, I’m really—”

He cut off mid sentence, because Jehan wasn’t alone outside his door.

Enjolras was with him.

“Hello?” he asked, unable to say anything else in his surprise.

“Hey, Grantaire,” Enjolras replied quietly.

He looked like hell. He normally seemed to glow with a bright and passionate fury, but that glow was gone. He kept his eyes slightly downcast, as if he were afraid to look Grantaire in the eyes.

“If you don’t want to talk to him right now, he’ll go,” Jehan said, breaking the uncomfortable silence between the two men who had been in a shouting match just two hours ago. “That was one of the conditions of him coming with me.”

“It’s… fine,” Grantaire responded, though he truly wasn’t sure. Part of him — the part that was stupidly in love with Enjolras — was thrilled at the blond’s appearance in his apartment. But another part of him throbbed painfully at the fight they’d had, at Enjolras’s refusal to see any viewpoint besides his own.

“Chetta invited me over,” Jehan told him, fiddling with the end of their braid. “I’ll probably end up staying the night.” They eyed both Enjolras and Grantaire. “Please don’t turn my apartment into a crime scene. I can’t afford to move in the middle of the semester.”

“Well, if either of us is going to end up dead, I doubt it’ll be the guy who can go through solid objects,” Grantaire pointed out.

Jehan didn’t look that amused.

“Hug?” they asked, holding out their arms. “Before I go?”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, enveloping Jehan’s small frame in a comforting hug.

“Call me if anything happens,” Jehan whispered into his ear. “I’ll come home if you need me.”

“I know,” Grantaire said, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good time with Chetta and the boys.”

Jehan pulled back and gave a weak smile. “Have a good night,” they said at normal volume. Then they turned to Enjolras. “I’ll see you later, Enj.”

“Bye, Jehan,” Enjolras responded quietly.

And then Jehan turned and walked back out of the apartment, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras alone, staring at each other in silence.

“Do you… want to come in?” Grantaire finally asked, taking a step back from the door.

“Sure,” Enjolras responded, taking a few steps into Grantaire’s bedroom and then hesitating to go any further. He glanced around, taking in the general untidiness of it. Art supplies covered almost every surface, and there was paint caked into the carpet (goodbye security deposit). A stack of canvases were piled next to an overflowing clothes hamper.

Grantaire went to sit down on the edge of his bed, hastily straightening the comforter and pushing the laptop and sketchbook aside.

“You can sit down… if you want,” he added.

This was going _so_ well. He just couldn’t _wait_ to relive _this_ awkward experience over and over again for the rest of his life.

Enjolras nodded and sat on the edge of the bed beside Grantaire, as far away as he could, and clasped his hands in front of him. He kept his eyes trained down.

“Grantaire, I’m really sorry for what I said earlier,” Enjolras finally said after another few minutes of agonizing silence. “I… I was an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”

Grantaire laughed a little. “Who told you that you needed to apologize to me?” he asked. “Courfeyrac or Combeferre? Or was it one of the others?”

“Everyone actually told me that I should wait to apologize,” he said hesitantly. “They thought you might not want to see me right now. But I… I just needed to tell you, so you knew.”

“Well, that’s something, I guess,” Grantaire mumbled. “Well, you’ve apologized now. Your conscience can be clear.”

“Grantaire, no,” Enjolras said quickly, looking up at him and reaching out to grasp his arm. When he realized what he’d done, he dropped his hand immediately and tightly gripped it with his other. “Sorry. Sorry. I just… this isn’t about how _I_ feel. I _deserve_ to feel bad for what I did. I… I _hurt_ you. Badly. And… you were _right._ I _haven’t_ ever made an effort to know you, and I _don’t_ think about the things I say when I’m angry. I don’t listen to your point of view. I just assume that I know what’s best for everyone based on my own experiences. And that’s _wrong._ ”

He took a deep breath. “I get so angry and frustrated with you because you force me to challenge my perspective. And that’s hard for me. But that’s _my_ fault, not your’s, and it’s not fair, the way I’ve treated you.”

He looked Grantaire fully in the eye then. “I’m not expecting you to forgive me,” he said. “But I hope that one day I can _earn_ your forgiveness.”

Grantaire nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed. Enjolras was _in his room, on his bed, apologizing to him._ It was all a bit much.

“I just…” he started after a long moment of silence. “It’s hard, going through life without the ability to forget. It makes relationships with people difficult, because I remember the little things most people wouldn’t. Sometimes, it’s just too much.”

“I’m sorry that I’ve added to that burden,” Enjolras said quietly. 

He paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. “You said that you were tired of loving someone who treated you like shit.”

And there it was.

Grantaire sighed and rubbed at his face roughly. “Can we not talk about that?” he asked, not daring to look at the blond.

“I think it’s important,” Enjolras insisted. “I want… I’ve avoided getting to know you. By your own account, I’ve been nothing but cruel to you. But you say that you love me. I just want to understand.”

“What is there to understand?” Grantaire asked. “I just… _do.”_

“But we hardly know each other,” Enjolras pointed out. “And that’s mostly my fault. But how can you love someone — actually _love_ them — if you don’t know them personally and you disagree with everything they say?”

“I don’t disagree with everything you say,” Grabtaire said quietly.

“You don’t act like it,” Enjolras said wryly.

“I know. But you have to understand… It’s impossible for me to be optimistic when I’ve seen and heard so many horrors. This world is so fucked up.” He looked at Enjolras, at those blue eyes and golden curls and face so perfect it should be carved of marble and not made of delicate flesh. “The way you speak, though. The passion you have for making things better, for making things different. It makes me forget, for just a moment, all of the bad shit in the world. It makes me believe that things might change. That’s why…”

Enjolras nodded, looking thoughtful. He stared at his left palm, pressing a spot in the very center with his fingers.

“When I was seven, I realized I had these abilities,” he said softly. “I was scared, because I knew that people with powers were so hated. I tried to keep it a secret from my parents, but I was also curious about what I could do. I tried to learn to control it myself. One day, I was phasing a pencil through my hand.” He squeezed the spot with his other hand. “My mom came into my room while I was doing it, and I freaked out and lost concentration.”

Grantaire took a sharp breath, knowing what it meant.

“My mom was screaming, and I was crying,” Enjolras continued. “It hurt so bad, I couldn’t even try to phase the pencil back out. There was blood everywhere. The entire way to the emergency room, my mom was just yelling, _‘What were you thinking?! Why would you do that?! What’s wrong with you?!’_ And I knew that I couldn’t tell her.”

He took a deep breath. “That was the first time that I realized why people were afraid of powers. Because they could be used to cause pain, even if it was an accident.”

He lifted his hand and examined it, front and back. Right in the center was a circular scar, the size of a nickel, like a stigmata.

“You’ve forced me to be better, you know,” he said at last, looking back at Grantaire. “Kicking and screaming the entire time like a fucking toddler. But you’ve forced me to get better at crafting my arguments, selecting my sources, stating my case. I wasn’t used to being questioned before you came along. I was used to people just accepting what I said. You made me step up my game, and I fucking _resented_ you for it. I was an idiot. And I want to make it up to you. I want to… I want to do what I should have done a long time ago. I want to get to know you.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, carefully. This was, in some ways, a dream come true. Enjolras, here, in his room, _on his bed,_ wanting to get to know him.

“Do you want to watch _Great British Bake Off_ with me?” Grantaire asked at last.

Enjolras laughed, startled. “What?”

“I was watching it before you got here,” Grantaire said, grabbing his laptop from where he’d shoved it aside at the beginning of this very strange encounter. “I can start the episode over, if you want.”

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, as if he wasn’t fully sure how they got to this point. “Uh, sure,” he finally said. “I’d like that.”

And so they made themselves comfortable on Grantaire’s suddenly much-too-small-seeming full sized bed, and Grantaire started the episode over from the beginning, occasionally pausing to discuss some aspect of the show or other topics. And when Jehan texted a couple hours later asking how things went, he told them that he’d let them know when he and Enjolras finished watching _Bake Off._

It was a start.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from Run Toto Run’s _Your Face_ , which is the indiest pull I’ll probably ever make for a fic, and I apologize for that. It’s a song I found years and years ago and it’s a great exR song.
> 
> I actually wrote a portion of this fic about four years ago, but never did anything with it. I’m pretty happy this concept has finally seen the light of day.
> 
> Grantaire’s power is inspired by a character in an episode of the old show _The 4400._ I also know very little about legal shit, so cut me a little slack if I got something glaringly wrong with the proposition stuff.


End file.
